


hold the sound

by bestliars



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestliars/pseuds/bestliars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fucking in Long Island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold the sound

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly written last March when the Wild played the Islanders. 
> 
> Title from the Thermals song (https://youtu.be/dIoD3ztWEE8) (listen to the Thermals, be cool)
> 
> Thanks to Stellarer for looking at this. <3

They win in Toronto, but it’s harder than it should be. A win is still a win, and they have another game the next night. There isn’t any time to dwell on it. They’re hurried from the arena onto the plane. Marco sits next to Spurg, like always. He leans on Spurg’s shoulder, and it isn’t really comfortable, but it’s comforting. The reassurance that Spurg is there, solidly solid, is worth the crick in his neck. That’s a secret he’s learned over the past five years of sitting next to each other on busses and planes and waiting rooms. No one’s allowed to know, not even Spurg.

He doesn’t actually sleep well on the flight, but good enough. Better than nothing. He fell asleep over Ontario and woke up in New York. They’re headed to Long Island. It doesn’t seem like Spurg slept at all. He seems wide eyed and tired, very tired, in a way that shouldn’t be attractive, but is. Another secret. Spurg actually knows all of his secrets, but lets him keep them anyway, left unsaid. At least that’s how it feels sometimes.

Marco is still half asleep, holding onto Spurg’s arm, as they stumble from the plane to the bus, but by the time they reach the hotel he’s something much worse: awake and exhausted. He and Spurg seem to have caught the same restlessness, which manifests in shoving their knees together, and holding hands like maybe that’ll keep their fingers still. It doesn’t really work. Marco’s so keyed up. The way Spurg strokes his fingers over Marco’s palm is torture, it goes straight to his dick. He’s too tired for this. He needs to collapse, but everything is winding him tighter.

The short sudden burst of cold air that hits them walking from the bus into the hotel startles Marco into something like proper wakefulness. It’s less than a minute, but the soft sleepy parts of his brain get frozen to attention. He fidgets all the way upstairs.

Technically, they have rooms next to each other, which is so stupid, especially for one night when they’re just going to sleep and do nothing, but whatever. Two rooms. It’s cool. They have the connecting door open, but are going to sleep in the same bed. It’s very late, and they are very tired. They should be able to fall back asleep, right?

Sleep is so good for them.

They have another game in like seventeen hours. Sixteen. Something. It’s late. Marco plays hockey, he doesn’t do math.

He really should sleep.

Marco believes in sleep, on an existential level. Marco isn’t clear what existential means—he plays hockey, he doesn’t do existentialism—but he believes in sleep on that level. He doesn’t really believe in sleep on any of the levels that he understands. He wants to, but just can’t get there.

Marco lies on his back in his boxers, trying to divide his life into levels, waiting for Spurg to come back from brushing his teeth. Then maybe then they’ll sleep. Or maybe not. Who knows. He can’t stop tapping his foot. He’s going to drive himself crazy. Drive Spurg crazy. He needs his foot to play hockey, so they can’t like, cut it off, and prior experience shows that it’s pretty damn hard to tie someone down to a hotel bed. Trying had been fun, but Marco’s too tired for another attempt.

He closes his eyes because the ceiling is so fucking boring. He’s so tired his eyes hurt. He can’t stop tapping his foot.

He doesn’t open his eyes when Jared gets into bed, crawling under the covers, getting comfortable cuddled against Marco’s side. He reaches across Marco’s body to turn off the lamp.

Marco isn’t sure how much time passes, but time definitely passes. Not too much of it, but enough. He tries to stay still. He tries to think sleepy thoughts. It doesn’t work very well.

Jared coughs.

It sounds louder than it should. Everything sounds louder than it should.

“Do you want to have sex?” Jared asks.

That’s the best idea that Marco has ever head.

“God yes.”

It takes like half a second for Jared to go from beside him to on top of him, kissing him fierce.

“I just need,” Jared says, but he never finishes the sentence, he kisses Marco’s neck instead. That’s good — Marco needs Jared to kiss his neck. He needs them to get more naked, which is easily done.

This was a great idea. Sex is so much easier than sleeping. Marco is so much better at it.

“I hate being back here,” Jared says, very quietly, and Marco has to think about what that means. Oh. He can’t sleep, and like, some of that is just his typical bullshit, but also he was responding to how unsettled Spurg seemed. He didn’t ask what that was about, writing it off as long road trip weirdness, but no. Now he gets it, kinda. They’re in _Long Island._ To play the _Islanders._

Fuck Long Island. Fuck the Islanders. Fuck anyone, anything, and anywhere that doesn’t love Jared as much as Marco does. Fuck them all.

“They don’t deserve you,” Marco says, which isn’t enough, but what can he say?

“You should fuck me,” Jared says, which is interesting. Usually fucking happens the other way round, because well, that just works for them really well. Also it’s the middle of the night. If they have to get off, and Marco suspects that they do, couldn’t they keep it simple? Couldn’t tired hand jobs get the job done? That would be so _reasonable_.

But Jared’s asking for this. Of course Marco’s going to say yes. Jared doesn’t ask for much, doesn’t usually ask for this, and Marco is so easy. He’s always going to say yes.

He nods, or tries to while kissing Jared more, pressing their mouths together again, mumbling, “Anything you want,” too tired to pronounce his words clearly.

On some level this is a bad idea. On some level this is all a terrible idea. They should not be fucking in the middle of the night on a game day. Or well... they should not be fucking at like four AM on the morning before a game. Even if they can sleep in late, it’s still a bad idea, but…

It’s also a good idea.

Marco is fairly sure.

It is more a good idea than a bad idea, and Marco has always been a fan of questionable ideas that get him laid, especially if Spurg is involved.

Spurg rolls off him, which is bad, and then turns on the lamp, which is terrible. He actually gets out of bed, which is some kind of unspeakably horrible that Marco can’t even understand it. He squints into the light, tracking Jared’s bare ass walking to the pile of their suitcases. His brain starts putting things together, like: oh yeah, fucking, lube, they’ll need that.

That’s worth getting out of bed for. Or well, worth Spurg getting out of bed for. If Marco had to get up himself… Maybe. Probably. But he’d be sad about it.

Spurg tosses the lube at Marco, who doesn’t catch it, because he was thinking about Spurg’s ass instead of paying attention, and also, it’s very late. Catching things is hard. 

“You sure?” Marco asks, because it’s always good to ask, even when they know each other so well. It’s late, and thinking clearly is difficult. They could still give up and try to sleep. That would be the smart plan.

“Very,” Spurg says, settling on the bed in front of Marco. “I wants something that’s…” He shrugs, at a loss for words. “It would be nice to feel something real.”

Marco thinks he recognizes something, thinks he might understand what this is — something kind of needy, wanting to be possessed a little bit, wanting to feel marked and kept. This is something he knows, a feeling he’s well acquainted with. He’s almost comfortable with it now, after enough examples of Spurg being there to hold onto him, instead of pushing him away. 

Marco’s so used to Spurg being solid, and being there for him, but they’re in Long Island, and that’s different. Spurg doesn’t talk a lot about what not getting signed by the team that drafted him meant, Marco’s only ever heard bits and pieces over the years, but it must of sucked. To make an understatement.

But being passed over by that reality meant getting all this. Marco’s so grateful that the Islanders didn’t want Spurg, because that’s how he found his way here to Marco, and they fit together so well. Marco would love to remind Spurg of that, however he wants it.

This is what they need to do.

They’re going to fuck, quietly, because it’s like four in the morning, and they couldn’t sleep. This will be better. This will be good. This will help.

Spurg is tight, but eager as Marco fingers him open. He throws his arm over his face, and bites into his bicep to stay quiet. He doesn’t let Marco go slow, he doesn’t stay still, pressing into every touch.

It’s hot, makes Marco lean down to kiss him. Spurg pulls him closer, with a hand on the back of his neck, then coming up to pull his hair, making Marco moan. Spurg bites his lip, then says, “Quiet,” a whisper of an order.

Marco can do quiet. It just means they can’t stop kissing, which isn’t a hardship at all.

Marco gets some lube on his dick, and presses in. Spurg is so hot around him, bites down hard on Marco’s shoulder. There is 100% going to be a mark for everyone to see in the showers later, but who cares. This is worth it. Spurg is holding onto him so tight, fingernails digging into his back, clinging. Pressed so close together the size difference feels noticeable. Marco is completely covering Spurg, in a way that feels really nice.

They’re in a little bubble here. Nothing matters outside this bed. Nothing matters except for their bodies. The world is just the two of them, fucking until they’re desperate.

Marco pulls out before he comes so they can jerk off together. Spurg’s dick is so hot in his hand, and he bites his Marco’s lip when he comes, hard enough to hurt, which is just what Marco needed.

They kiss for awhile after that. It gets slower and sleepier, but no less good. They’re too tired, or too lazy, or too both, to clean up properly. Spurg grabs the nearest article of clothing, which happens to be Marco’s boxers, to wipe up a little bit. The boxers get thrown on the floor, the covers get pulled back up around them, and the lamp goes off again. 

Marco is finally ready to sleep. He’s sore, and exhausted, but he loves his life, and who he shares it with. Spurg is warm and heavy curled half on top of him. They just played a game together in the NHL, they’re going to play another in too-few hours. So tired. So satisfied. Big picture, there is no place Marco would rather be. 

But still, fuck Long Island.

This time sleeping works. All of the restless energy is gone, fucked out of them. Marco closes his eyes and immediately drifts into deep dreamless sleep, which will hopefully be enough to recharge his battery for the next game.

 

 

They win. They beat the Islanders in a shootout. The two of them are on the ice for the only goal against, but it’s Tavares at the end of the powerplay, and sometimes that happens. They could have been sharper, but—it’s the second night of a back to back. They definitely didn’t get enough sleep. It could have gone better, but they won. Two points. No complaining.

After the game there’s another late night plane ride waiting for them, but this time they’ll end the night at home, not another anonymous hotel room — two hotel rooms, technically, even if they don’t need that. Tonight they get to fall asleep in their own bed.

At the end of the day, how they both wound up in Minnesota comes down to pure dumb luck. It’s chance, and happenstance, and some less-than-smart decisions that were out of their control. Marco doesn’t care about all that. He just knows how lucky he is that things worked out the way they did, that they wound up together.

**Author's Note:**

> But seriously fuck the Islanders. Their bad decisions have worked out great for me, but still, fuck them.


End file.
